slamming screen door
kicked off soiled shoes
freckles turned to buckshot
from her double-barreled cross
baby, upon boy, over unsuspecting man
planting damage, within defect, after birth
lungs and pockets emptied by churchly angels
sins of the flesh hacked to pieces
waxy tears drip on five cakes a year, now six
lit up on the 4th of July, bottles but no rockets
holiday turkey frozen solid
while she thaws in detox
invisible fallout explained away, forgiven
by the polyester / cotton blend of accountant-turned-therapist
putrid stench of interior rot
shrouded by incense, seduction, and garage sale revivals
tented bridges burn
wagon wheels spin
salvation and escapes lie, lurking
in shadows behind the offering
_______________________
© 2010 Rita Doyle Roberts
